


revelation

by virtaux



Category: League of Legends
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtaux/pseuds/virtaux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the blade's shadow never hesitates. not until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	revelation

Hesitation is a crippling vice that Talon has never once faced before for as long as he can remember. His blades are finite – they do not falter. The silver glints in the moonlight and all of his victims would swear against them if they were left alive to scream in agony. He is silent – he is the shadow, conquering an unseen realm of Noxians who deserve nothing more than the taste of steel. Those who seek him out from every corner lie in shambles where they dared to draw a weapon against him. In this, he becomes one with the fluency of the darkness, moving along where it leads him in search of a sign.

His limbs are locked underneath him. His expression is hidden underneath the darkness of his hood, the peak successfully masking his eyes. His lips and his jaw are both set rigidly, however, and they are evident to the light of the pyre he’s made for himself. The Ironspike Mountains are not forgiving – the winds that howl, sent by way of the Freljord, threaten to break the windows and draw him from his perch. They permeate and chill him down to the bone, but he has long since become adjusted to such treatment, having converted into one who has committed his life to colder deeds. 

The cold is not the cause of his frozen disposition. He has been able to withstand such treatment for a little less than a week, stationed there upon the single thread of supposed rumors. Such rumors are not to be trusted; they have been delivered to him by way of a lowly Noxian soldier. General Du Couteau, a lead – they allow Talon to remove himself from the Institute for an extended period of time in favor of his own personal goals. Facing the cold is a necessary sacrifice that he is willing to make in order to take another step closer. 

Nothing occurs. 

Talon confirms after the second day that he is alone in the Mountains, aside from Winter’s kiss that constantly hovers over his shoulder. The moonlight overhead is not enough to grant him leeway in such a blizzard. Even then, the winds betray him and fail to mask the sound of crunching snow outside of the safehouse he has settled within.  


It’s enough to set him on edge, and the blade that he wields is more than enough. Even then, the silvery glint flickers in the pyre and reflects an expression of frigidity. The sensation is unfamiliar, yet a certain premonition lingers along the curvature and he tries his hardest to steady himself. Settle on one thing. Allow the strange splay of emotions to dissipate into oblivion where they belong – he’s not someone who has an explicit need for such petty things, in the end. They equate to distractions. And he has no time for them.

Yet there’s an indescribable rush that cripples him, thoughts scattered, forcing him to his feet in order to track down the sound that began to haunt his thoughts. A sound that beckons familiarity from somewhere deep within, stirring his soul into a state of alert and distant curiosity – one that has only been apparent in childhood, fleeting away as a result of more important notions taking prevalence. It leaves him in a state of discontent, a scowl tugging his lips downward. 

The sleeves of his coat cloak the blade that points upward from his wrist, keeping his arm steady as his feet drag across the floorboards. Fear does not flicker in molten eyes – unorthodox, however, he is slow and he finds himself lingering on the edge. The door itself is closed tightly shut, sharp winds slicing at it and causing it to rattle every now and again when the current comes. A figment of his imagination? Had he spent too long within Winter’s embrace, destined to collapse underneath the weight of her presence? 

Talon refuses to believe he’s in a state of hysteria wrought upon by high tensions in a frosted land he didn’t know nearly as well as the crooked streets of Noxus.

All of the doubts inside of him swirl into a firestorm, and he nearly breaks down the door in the swift motion he takes. The blades of his cloak clink silently, but it’s only when the wood creaks by a hand not his own that he freezes temporarily.

His limbs freeze, as if the ice is crawling along the floor and clawing at him with a sinister smile. 

The snow is matted against the hood of the figure – shorter than him, though not significantly. They did not shiver; they are steadfast in their wake, their head lifting, stray strands of silver framing a soft face. Amber specks flicker underneath like ignited embers. Their movements are simple – their hands lift to slowly peel away at the hood, revealing a face marked by chemical-induced burns and charcoal rings underneath eyes that have been set ablaze by a fate not anticipated.

“Riven.”

His voice is gruff, almost shattered by a lack of usage, but the woman before him is aware of exactly who it is. She has not seen Talon in what feels like an eternity – she has been pronounced dead by Noxus, and to see her is like cruel destiny coming to devour him whole. They are of mutual accord – or, had been, given her cut allegiances with the Crimson Elite, and prior to that. Their childhoods were not kind to them – they both understand the slums and had chanced upon one another time and time again. Their minds had once been aligned upon a similar path, but they both had strayed in drastically different directions. One has devotion for a missing General while the other yearns for personal redemption and a fixed image of her homeland where she had prided herself for so long. 

She does not speak immediately. She teeters on the edge of her heels, barely meeting his shadowed gaze. Tensions rise and questions flow through his mind. A phantom decides to press his luck, pushing boundaries. His eyes narrow into speculative slits and it’s strange when he falters when he moves his arm. He wants to define who she really is – observe the reaction when silver contrasts against her throat. 

He can’t do it. Not to her. 

“I know you have questions.”

There’s more than questions.

“Why I’m here, what happened—“

Neither of those matter.

“I can explain everything.”

Words aren’t necessary.

Her lips purse in that moment, questioning his silence and the near trembling stance. The firestorm bubbling inside of him is snarling, beckoning him forward, to do something, and yet he is unable because he doesn’t know how. It’s been such a long time – weeks, months – since he’d last caught a glimpse of her. She flickers across his thoughts every now and again, albeit distantly, lingering only on occasion when something serves as a steadfast reminder. He did not expect this – it toys with his inner balance, eyebrows knitting together underneath the shadows cast by the peak of his hood. The fist opposing the bladed wrist tightens, as if containing an inner conflict, and she notices.

“Talon.”

The way his name echoes across the cabin is utterly foreign to him. He has not heard his own name in days, much less from her. It’s gentle, still inquisitive and perhaps a bit concerned for the catatonic silence. This is uncharacteristic, as if he has become lost in midst of himself, unable to pull the pieces together.

Riven’s feet scuff against the floorboards and it’s only then when he manages to pry himself from the place he stood, shuffling sideways and closing the door behind her to stifle the winds. Her coat is drawn off of her, and her attire is something that he is coming to understand. Fractured shards of her Noxian armor, aligned with a broken blade which she settles down upon one of the tables… It equates to a desertion from her home. It settles inside of him, but it doesn’t sit well, as if he’s against her choices. But the eyes of Noxus extend farther out than his own – he doesn’t know the entire story, and he’s in no place to make remarks.

She whirls around to properly face him in a slight shift of her feet, and a step into his proximity maintains the silence and pressures it upon both of them. They understand one another to a certain degree in that moment. They don’t lack the words that should be spit out – accusations, questions, and everything in between. Instead, her fingers slide along the edge of the hood, pulling it back from his face. His eyes are darkened from a lack of sleep, mimicking her own, strands of timber haphazardly falling into his scope of vision. Her fingers linger, drawing against his cheek for a moment before falling back down to her sides. It’s a relief to see his eyes again – a cold comfort in midst of hardened fortitude.

“Start explaining.”

This time, there is no pause. The momentum is picked back up and she claims the seat he had taken prior to her arrival, eyeing him and waiting for him to do the same. Glossed lips part in order to weave the tale together again, depicting the battlefield. The grounds soaked in the blood of Ionians and Noxians alike, the Zaunite war machines leaving nothing but decimation in their wake. The men and woman in her faction collapse, suffocating on the fumes and choking on the chemicals. She recalls the white hot pain of the shots as they splashed against her skin, bleaching her skin an off-shade of white. Death smiles down upon her in her visions, and her voice almost trembles as she explains everything down to the point. The smell of decay, the burning of chemicals, the understanding of the Noxian intentions… She pinpoints the moment of when she makes her decision, fleeting and getting out alive. Noxian strength had transformed into an overwhelming force of complete domination. A just war was not the intention – it was the destruction of an entire people. She draws the curtains with her shattered blade, which she tentatively glances toward before her eyes cast down toward her hands. Ever since then, she claims, she’s been wandering – searching for a purpose lost in years come to pass since she had begun to serve Noxus.

After she finishes, Riven settles back against the cushions, visibly shaken by the recollection. He deserved to know, she tells herself, and he simply watches her all the while. 

There’s a fleck of concern for her current state in his eyes, albeit temporarily – snuffing itself out shortly afterward. 

“That’s why. They thought I was dead because I never came back. I didn’t have reason to... after that.”

“You left everyone to die.”

“What?”

Talon’s jaw is set, outlined dimly by the pyre that continues to lick along the edges of the cage that it’s shut behind. The accusation is uncalled for, but he pieces it all together in his mind and defines it of his own volition because he knows that Riven can handle it. A bitter taste in her mouth remains and she straightens her posture, lips settling into a frown.

“It was not my fault… The intentions were not my own.”

“Yet you were one of the few who got away alive.”

“We should have lost… Their lives… They were all taken unfairly.”

“You made the right decision in not coming back.”

The words stun her and her eyes lift suddenly, watching the grim expression that lurks upon his face. Her fingers twitch involuntarily and it’s a flash flood of relief. His eyes close, and he exhales quietly, though she’s the one that rises. In the moment of darkness, Riven steps forward and she sits beside him instead, looking over toward him. He knows she’s there, and only when he opens his eyes again does he acknowledge her presence, watching her with solemnity.

“What else could I have done…? The Noxian ideals… Everything I fought for… It all fell apart. It became meaningless… Everyone was dying. It wasn’t what I remembered… It wasn’t what I wanted.”

“You fight for yourself. That’s all you can do. Violence to end violence… So you say.”

Her own words echoing from his mouth set off a spark inside of her and her eyes widen as she stares down at her hands. The blood that stains them remains, even after an extended period of time in which she had revealed herself to him. His beliefs did not parallel the words that he spoke – they are a weak attempt at offering her some form of solace. 

“Talon… Why are you…?”

“You were the only one who understood. You knew what Noxus was capable of. I’m giving you what’s due.”

Coupled with his murmur, his arm coils around her and he draws her in. She doesn’t miss a beat in which her arms slip around him, her face pressing gently into his shoulder. For a moment, he casts his glance toward her before losing himself in the pyre once more, shaking his head to himself. 

“I’ve missed you.”

It’s a quiet murmur, and he turns his head instantly in response. His head dips and he presses his lips to her forehead, along the crown of her hair. It’s not the first time, she recalls – nights after Crimson Elite assignments are enough to confirm that for an eternity. Consideration extends and he remains close to her, recalling those times and reveling in the sudden flood of warmth. It contrasts against the cold outside, leaving contentment in its wake.

The sentiment is not returned, yet implied; she lurks within his shadow, becoming the only one he’s fully accepted in. She immerses herself entirely, leaning up in order to press her forehead against his for a moment. The corners of her lips twitch into the faintest remnants of a smile – a smile that had been whole once upon a time, which he remembers vividly. The change that has been instilled within the soldier is drastic, but Talon thinks that it aligns her in terms of similarity. There’s more to her than war – there’s more to her than a fragile heart.

He knows what she needs in that moment. He crafts a silent vow, hiding it underneath dark fringe as his head lolls forward in order to return the gesture, barely managing a returning smile of his own.

“—You have to promise me something.”

Flecks of gold linger in her eyes, sparking a small flame before they flutter shut. The smile on her face falters, only in favor of her curiosity which beckons her to respond.

“What is it?”

“Don’t disappear like that again. Promise me.”

There’s a shadow of concern that lurks within his eyes, and Riven only notices it when she opens her own eyes again to watch him speak. His words aren’t darkened by the notion, but his expression dwindles in the limbo between. Her lips press into a tight, thin line, considering the promises that dare to tumble past. She keeps herself locked up for a moment, and his hold on her tightens significantly when she hesitates. He doesn’t have time for this. He’s patient with her – but not this patient. He needs to know if she can fulfill that promise to him. A single promise…

“Riven.”

Could she maintain it?

“I don’t care what you do.”

She can’t afford to shatter ties with someone like him.

“Just promise me.”

These words mean everything.

Talon’s never one to show concern for anyone, but there’s a fire inside of him that burns because he feels obligated. He feels obligated to take care of Katarina and Cassiopeia, but he owes Riven something else. He looks up to her, quietly admires her – the finesse of battle, the strong posture, the passion for what she believes in. A promise would solidify a newfound purpose – a purpose that could replace that which General Du Couteau gave him, if only temporarily. His search would never falter… But he can’t commit to that alone.

Riven’s worth his time.

“—I promise.”

It’s a resonating sound that echoes through his ears, and his gaze softens.

“Then I’ll keep you safe.”

A moment’s reprieve and they seal it off, lips brushing against one another, though Riven’s cheeks are stained with tears, unable to contain the flood of emotions that had threatened to break down the dam she’d built from all of those months of wandering around and around and around. Such a promise gives her the clarity she needs, the affirmation that she is not alone – never alone, not with someone like Talon there, someone that cared, albeit silently, for he is not familiar with the emotions himself. 

The winds screech, battering the windows, yet the two revel in one another for the night – keeping each other warm and putting the pieces back together.


End file.
